


Don't Blame Me

by Kalina_Ionescu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, I call that smut, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Soft Smut Sunday, blame Taylor Swift, don't blame me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 05:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14635446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalina_Ionescu/pseuds/Kalina_Ionescu
Summary: Sherlock is driving Mycroft crazy, but he might have a point somewhere.





	Don't Blame Me

His brother’s eyes were still wild when he arrived, pupils blown wide with adrenaline. He had to be drenched to his underwear. A grey blanket was wrapped around the thin, shaking frame. Water was dripping from the dark curls, and although his face was as pale as it had been on nights Mycroft tried to forget, there was a little smirk on his lips.

Mycroft had come immediately. Accident on the bridge, they’d said. Chased a car on a motorbike. The remains of the motorbike were still scattered across the cordoned off street.

Mycroft had expected the worst – again. But Sherlock looked fine, as far as he could tell at first glance. Even as he stepped closer, he couldn’t make out any blood or misangled limbs. It was a miracle.

As Sherlock turned his head and spotted Mycroft, his expression darkened. He narrowed his eyes at Mycroft, stormy pupils gleaming dangerously. The smirk twisted into an angry pout. _Don’t blame me_ , he snapped silently.

It wasn’t the first time that police had informed him his brother was found in a life-threatening situation, but it was the first time since Sherlock was clean. Apparently he’s found a new way to fight boredom.

Mycroft dimly remembered his words.

_Smoke. Street lights shining into the empty flat. The sound of retching broke the silence, coughing, spitting. Weak shoulders shivering under his gentle touch. They squirmed away as another wave of pain wrecked the body._

_“Don’t think you’re better than me.”, Sherlock had scowled. “Just because you’re clever.”_

_Silence, retching again. A cool rag to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Panting. Pain._

_“Everyone has something. You must have something. Your work. Don’t you have to go?”_

It seemed that his brother has found himself another something. _Adrenaline_. Mycroft didn’t know if he liked that better or not. Anyway, his brother put himself in danger, risking his own life and Mycroft’s as well, as he was close to a heart attack every time Anthea delivered the message.

It was exhausting. He wondered if Sherlock knew. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t care.

Mycroft was ten feet away when Sherlock stood up from the bench. He stalked away to the ambulance before Mycroft could even say anything. He was deliberately avoiding him – not that Mycroft wasn’t used to this kind of behaviour. He sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to push back the headache and worry that were his constant companions.

He followed Sherlock with his eyes. His brother threw his blanket at a paramedic and kept walking towards the street, most likely to take a cab home. As Mycroft looked away, his eyes locked on a group of officers. Bright, silver hair turned towards him, and he knew – even from that distance – that their eyes met.

Nothing he could do. If Sherlock acted normal, there was no reason to do otherwise. The country’s problems didn’t wait for him, and this afternoon’s incident had only delayed things. Still feeling a bit shaky with the thought of how close Sherlock had come to death _again_ , he went to his car, heading back to his office.

 

It was already past ten when he finally made it home. A diplomatic crisis had arisen from the phone call he had broken up to get to the crash scene. He’d spent all evening trying to deal with it. In the end, after hours of forced politeness, persuasion and a piercing headache, his interlocutor had accepted his apology reluctantly. Mycroft’s frustration about the tough and utterly _wasted_ afternoon only made his headache worse, and the pain made it difficult to control his thoughts. They were pulsing in vicious waves of guilt and regret, twisting around and breaking on the topic of Sherlock. Not even a cocktail of paracetamol and fine whiskey could drown them out. They screamed loudly. He gave up on paperwork for the night and called his driver to get home. Sometimes he enjoyed the gentle movements of the car after a long day at work, but today the silence only made things worse. 

He was so tired. It took him a few tries to put the key in the lock and open the door.

He pulled off his shoes in the dark and hung up his coat, fumbling a bit for the hook, when suddenly he was blinded by light. He looked up, blinking, meeting brown, warm eyes. He held the gaze, unguarded.

Worry and exhaustion clouded his vision. He didn’t remember making his way through the hall to the bedroom, only the mild pressure on his back that had brought him there, and a thumb caressing his shoulderblade. Soothing promises were whispered, but he seemed unable to understand the words, like they were spoken in a strange language.

The next moment he was sitting on the bed, allowing gentle hands to remove the weight of the day, piece by piece. The abandoned suit rustled softly as it hit the floor. Cool air embraced him and soothed his skin. Once naked, he was newly clothed in crispy white sheets and the familiar scent of citrus shower gel and home.

He was lying on his side. The mattress seemed to pull him in with attractive force. Feather-light kisses formed a trail down his spine, savoured every single freckle on his delicate shoulders. Quiet pecks filled the silence, breathing. Tender hands brushed over his thighs. Hot skin was pressed against his cooling back, making him jump, but strong arms held him close.  A whimper escaped his lips. He melted into the warmth. The tension in his limbs eased off.

 _Won’t let you go to bed like that, darlin’_. Just a warm draught against his ear, making him shudder. A quiet gasp escaped him as his hair was pulled back. His mind emptied with every tug, some harsh and unforgiving, some gentle and calming. Skilled fingers massaged his tingling scalp. The grim thoughts fled him with each shaky exhale. Soft lips stole them from his mouth. They tasted of fresh mint.

 _Tough day, hm?_ The compassion caressed his soul. For a short moment the body moved away and he mourned the touch. He didn’t listen to the soft _click_ , just licked the mint off his lips, saving the memory. He wanted more. The firm chest reappeared against his back. Rough fingertips wandered down his side, light as a breeze, and made him shiver. Knowingly, he parted his thighs for warm slickness.

The first breaching, stretching – _burning_ – returned his awareness. Like a drowning man being pulled out of the depths of the sea, he gasped for air, eyes wide in the darkness. _Too much. Oh! More._

Easy, deep breaths mixed with his own high-pitched gasps and their low moans as the room filled with anticipation. His hips thawed and rocked back against sweet praises, until it just wasn’t enough anymore. A moment of aching, craving, before he was pulled close again - and held tight. His face was turned back by the grip on his chin, a pair of lips claiming his moans as they melted together.

The feeling was so satisfying after a day so miserable that he suddenly felt his eyes burn. Tanned arms tightened around him, holding him close as he shook. _Shush, darlin’, easy_ , it reached him over quick, short intakes of breath. As he relaxed gradually, his world erupted in cozy pleasure.

They started rocking simultaneously. He turned his head, eyes wild in the dark. A whispered pleading, head leaned back against solid shoulders, and he was rewarded. Lazy kisses met lazy thrusts. Warm and wet mint in his mouth as they rubbed their tongues together. Warm and wet tingling between his legs as _he_ pounded into him, taking more of him with every shove.

It was slow and deep. Every groan against his ear gave him hot chills. Every thrust sent him higher, but he wasn’t scared of falling anymore. He knew he was held safely by muscles flexing around his waist and teeth sinking into his shoulder and fingers tightening in his hair and the loud silence they created together.

He thought he could die like that – live like that, forever.

Until he suddenly couldn’t anymore. A word rippled through his soul. A name. He was shaking, gasping. Begging – _Please!_ – for more. He wasn’t disappointed. His back tensed with anticipation. His toes curled in, his fingers clawed into the sheets. He was pulling hard in need of support as his body was flooded with bliss, waves of pleasure washing away everything – everything but _him_.

As it slowly receded and the world turned quiet again, all was gone, but _he_ was still there. The warm pounding continued for a few moments only, then an intense groan drowned his panting and the body behind him went still, collapsing against his side. It was the only weight he felt on his shoulders now, and it was comfortable. They both gasped for air, but breathing had never felt so easy. 

The grip around his waist never loosened as things slowly started coming back to him. Mycroft remembered there was a world beyond this bed, outside the room, but while he was conscious about it, he didn’t let it in again. Too tired and too satisfied to care, he lay motionlessly as Greg wiped them both clean carefully. He hummed happily as his partner re-appeared on the other side of the bed, letting him wrap his arm around his chest without moving too much.

“’Feelin’ better now, love?”, Greg mumbled into his hair as he pressed a soft kiss onto his head, fingers absently caressing Mycroft’s arm.  
  
“Mhm.”, he muttered back. _Much better_. He was too tired to speak, but Greg knew what he wanted to say. _Thank you._

The warmth and the silence of the afterglow were enough to push Mycroft straight into a doze. Somewhere in between, as random thoughts formed and faded like billowing smoke, he remembered Sherlock’s words and a sudden realisation struck him.

 _Lord save me_ , he thought and tightened his grip around Greg. _I’ll be using for the rest of my life._


End file.
